The Rev.Tom Trefusis who conducted the ceremony was a large red-faced man who had played Rugby football for his University and spent most of his energy over the development of cricket and football clubs up and down the county.

He could not be expected to have cared very greatly for the Rev.Charles, who had been at no period of his life and in no possible sense of the word a sportsman.

As he conducted the service his mind speculated as to the next vicar (the Rev.Tom knew an excellent fellow, stroke of the Cambridge boat in '12, who would be just the man) the possibility of the frost breaking in time for the inter-county Rugby match at Truxe, the immediate return of his wife from London (he was very fond of his wife), and, lastly, a certain cramp in the stomach that sometimes "bowled him over" and of which the taking of a funeral--"here to-day and gone to-morrow"-- always reminded him.
"Wonder how long I'll last," he thought as he stood over the grave of the Rev.Charles and let his eyes wander over the little white gravestones that ran almost into the dark wall of St.Dreot Woods as though they were trying to hide themselves.

"Wish the frost 'ud break--ground'll be as hard as nails." The soil fell, thump, thump upon the coffin.

Rooks cawed in the trees; the bell tolled its cracked note.
The Rev.Charles was crammed down with the soil by the eager spades of the sexton and his friend, who were cold and wanted a drink.
Maggie, meanwhile, watched the final disappearance of her father with an ever-growing remorse.